Rehab

Today was a pinball kind of day. Rihanna just came out with a new song that puts me about 2 years behind schedule in terms of coping with the loss of Raf and has aptly titled it "Rehab." Every time I hear it, I feel my heart harden and my jaw clench. I wait for the emotional blow to hit me about 3/4 of the way through the song and let out a sigh of epic proportions when it's over. Lex knows not to ask questions. YouTube won't let me embed the song, but you can check out the video here (ignore the ludicrous video.) The last couple of seconds (4:32+) aptly capture the expression I most often use when I feel Raf's memory surround me.

Why does grief come over us in waves? Is it the result of the brain's compartmentalization, or is it a sign of unprocessed emotions? Am I putting myself through unnecessary guilt when I let my mind drift over the well-known landscape of regret and nostalgia, or am I experiencing mental indigestion because I'm incapable of correctly processing pain? I wonder what Jake's wife would have to say about this.

Speaking of Jake, I got an email from him a couple of days ago in reference to the Master Plan I recently wrote about:

Hi San,

Since reading your latest blog post, I feel like a klutz. The letter I've been writing is to you, not Raf. In your last post you said I was writing him the epic, but what I will say to Raf will be pretty short. In an ideal world he'll be inspired to say something like the email you inspired me to write to Maria* - and I meant what I wrote her - which was a short explanation and has definitely made that relationship a big positive. I have you to thank for that. Ach...forgive me, I'm an idiot. The MP as you put it (which sounds manipulative) is in the works, but the letter's to you...

I am now up to date with your blog. Great writing, you could do well as a writer. I only realised once I got to November that the most recent posts are at the top...I started at the end of each month and read to the beginning.

Jake

Hmmm. I am most curious about this letter. He tends to be very insightful. It also got me thinking: what is going to say to Raf? Moreover, maybe it was time to start thinking about what exactly it is that I want from Raf in an ideal situation.

As I was contemplating these things, my phone buzzed. Blackberrys are amazing things, aren't they? They keep track of your email, your contacts, photos, music, and best of all: painful calendar reminders you'd rather forget. Thank you, Blackberry, for reminding me that December 2nd is Raf's anniversary. Thank you so very much. Perhaps you can also remind me that his child (which he neglected to tell me about) was born in September? Oh no wait, I'll remember that one on my own: it's about a week after my OWN birthday. Thank you, brain. You and Blackberry have been most excellent ninja memory assassins today. It's a good thing they haven't invented a Blackberry chip you can implant in your brain yet, because you can't throw a chip embedded in your cranium against the wall when your eyes well up with anger.

In other news, Hayden's father has put his gorgeous canal house on the market. I imagine this must be a pretty painful experience - downsizing because you're lonely even though that means leaving behind the last thing your wife did before she died: decorate and furnish that house. I was back in Europe for my second round (the one that got me the job) but didn't get in touch with him. When I got back to the States, I texted him saying: "Hey, I was in town but didn't have time to stop by. Next time, maybe. Hope you're well." No response, unsurprisingly.

That was in September. Flash forward a few months. Marco and I are about to start looking for apartments in January. Needless to say, irony felt it necessary to make sure all of the ones available and with decent parking are located exactly in the same neighborhood as Hayden's new place. Ah, yes. Well played, Lady Irony. Well played.

A question occurred to me recently while reading Raf's letters (yes, I ended up bringing them back with me from my parents' house. Bad girl, I know.)

Did he take advantage of me?

It's possible - the four-year age gap was significant when we met. But aside from our intense and prolonged bout of kissing during his visit there was no intimate physical contact to speak of, so that rules out motivation by sex. But what about emotional (ab)use?

I recently theorized that Raf took advantage of me emotionally at a time when I was vulnerable to losing my own emotional identity by being his crutch. This is based mostly on the blush of embarrassment I feel when reading our fervent correspondence from that time period, but I recall it as being nothing short of genuine on both our parts at the time of its unfolding. Certainly a teenage boy with nothing but sex on the brain would not take the trouble to cultivate an 8-year, emotionally intimate relationship with someone half a world away? There would be a virtual guarantee of no physical satisfaction, not to mention millions of other options in his home country.

As I do almost every week, I re-read Ingrid's angry email to me demanding my exit from Raf's existence, trying to glean some sort of truth in her venom. Even her hateful assessment of the situation certainly makes it seem like our bond was real.

The question Jake inspired remains: what do I want from Raf? An explanation? An apology? A friendship? The answer is so hard to pinpoint. Maybe there comes a time in grief where you're too far gone to want to go back. At what point do the wounds of bitterness and anger soften into the faint, throbbing pain of nostalgia? When have you buried and wept over enough pieces of your shattered heart to resent a perpetrator's effort to come back and help you dig them up? And if that desire goes away, why don't the emotional thorns?

Maybe that's the feeling of wisdom taking root in my soul...


*Explanation to follow at a later date (when I figure out what the hell he's referring to - my memory does not match my apparent wisdom. Oops!)

It's a Girl....?

New message posted on Jake's profile by Raf this week:

How goes it over in the land of milk and honey? After a few stupidly busy weeks things have calmed down a little here so i get to spend a little time getting in touch with people... how are you and the Mrs doing? Four more weeks of work then we move (infinitely better than our current place!) and have a bit of a vacation...

Nothing special, just keeping everyone up to date. (If anyone is still reading - eek!)

To Jake's credit, he is apparently executing a Master Plan (MP) by reestablishing contact with Raf . As I understand it, this MP involves the illustrious letter Jake promised to write on my behalf/about me/referencing me. Once a highly elusive and improbable concept, I received two messages this week assuring me that this epic is, in fact, nearing completion. I wonder what it will say?

Re-establishing contact with Raf serves two purposes:

1) Jake is a horrible communicator and doesn't always realize that just because he thinks about people in his head they can actually feel the contact.
2) It would be weird for Jake to write an epic letter dissecting the innermost sanctum of my relationship with Raf that started with "hey, man...I know I haven't talked to you in 7 years but here's my opinion on an issue you thought I didn't know about."

To be honest, I'm quite worried about this grandiose MP. What kind of psychoanalysis is Jake going to unleash on Raf? Does the once-implicit code of privacy still apply to my now non-existent friendship with Raf? In other words, once he gets over the total shock of a mutual friend broaching a sensitive issue, will he feel betrayed? Will he despise me even more? Will I get another angry email from Ingrid? Hmmm... so many ways in which this could go totally awry. Not that I doubt Jake's discretion, mind you. He's quite the sensitive issue broacher/inner sanctum explorer/psychoanalyst. It's just that when your close friend of a decade inexplicably abandons you, you sort of stop trusting your knack for predicting their behavior.

I dreamt about Raf on two occasions: 6 weeks ago and 3 weeks ago.

6 weeks ago

I am walking toward the familiar porch on which Raf and I used to spend hours sitting and talking during the summer. My body feels like a Nike ad - I can hear every breath leave my chest and weave in slow motion through the rain. The water drops roll down my cheekbones and nose, splattering noisily onto the red clay below. I'm running now, enjoying the cool sensation on my skin and liking the way my wet shirt sticks to my body. But there is nobody around, and I start to worry that I'm in the wrong place. Everything has led me here. Every single lie Raf has told, the pain he has put me through, the friendship he has carelessly thrown away, has led me to this. Today I get to take a Mulligan on all the bullshit. I see him suddenly in the distance and catch my breath. He's as beautiful as I remember.

He's spotted me now and begins his self-conscious stroll toward me, hands at his side, head down every so often betraying his shy nature. We are no more than 2 feet away when he draws a breath to speak.

I will never hear his words.

A palpable anxiety grips my body and my ears start to ring with my brain's message: get out. It's too painful. I cannot handle another heartbreaking set of false starts and an uncertain friendship loathed and sabotaged by Ingrid. The child they have now is innocent, and it does not deserve a lying father or a fighting set of parents. I cannot and will not be the catalyst for another near-divorce.

His hand grazes my shoulder as I turn and walk away. I'm so tired of rising above.



3 weeks ago:

For some reason we (read: myself and a sea of vaguely familiar but featureless faces) are all gathered at a reunion. Jake and his wife sent me an invitation I accepted with eager pleasure. It would be exciting to see all of my old friends and mentors at this hodgepodge gathering. As we're finishing up our standard meal of fried chicken, weak lemonade, and frosted yellow cake, Jake takes me by the elbow and steers me toward the main office down the hill. Dozens of former colleagues and bunkmates are reminiscing over drumsticks, laughing sheepishly and exageratting their gestures to mask the certain awkwardness that accompanies such reunions.

My back snaps into rigidity as I see a man 100 yards away looking up at the baby girl he is holding with outstretched arms. Raf. "Is Ingrid here?" I ask Jake nervously. I don't want to cause a scene. He responds, ever the philosopher, by nudging me toward Raf. "Very helpful, thanks." I mutter. What am I supposed to do? He hasn't talked to me in over a year! What is appropriate to say in this situation?

I wake up sweating, relieved that I don't have to worry about saying the right thing. They haven't invented a word yet for the combination of "fuck you" and "congratulations."

And Then There Were Three

I received an email from Jake this week that said:

Yo San,

Haven't forgotten you...actually I'm thinking about writing a letter, which we all know will take me several months and almost be worth waiting for. Hope things are good and you haven't had too much snow!

Jake


That letter will almost certainly never be completed, but it's a nice thought. Unfortunately, Jake belongs to the variety of men who are terrible at correspondence, completing to-do lists, or....er...wait, maybe that's all men? Anyway, best not to get my hopes up.

My weekend out in California went well, except for the fact that Lex got himself mixed up in some freaky (and by the look on his face on the plane ride back, entirely regrettable) threesome in San Francisco while I was in Sacramento. Go figure. The man is a sexual deviant. I've promised to let him guest blog about it if there's enough demand.

By the way - HOLY SHIT HOW BEAUTIFUL IS SAN FRANCISCO? I feel a bit silly admitting that I had never been until this past weekend, but it was absolutely breathtaking. I can see why it makes lifers out of so many Americans.


As I've noted before, Jake's historical allure had worn off a bit since our phone call back in July. Where I had once felt a compelling urge to go seek him out in order to find some peace in my head, I now felt disappointment in knowing that even he looked at me askance when relaying my Raf story. Then again, I hadn't told him the whole deal. I hadn't told him about the kiss.


Flashback

The year 2000. I'm standing at the train station, tugging at my red, long-sleeved shirt. I shouldn't have worn it today - it always makes me sweat. I would have been late had my mom not finally put the kibosh on my agonizing between cornflower blue and bordeaux. "You're beautiful - stop with the micromanaging!" she had said. She was right. Still, I'm regretting my choice of outfit. Will he think I'm pretty? Thin enough? Perfect enough? Did I look like I was trying too hard, standing there in the cool autumn breeze in my long black peacoat, a scarf carelessly flung around my neck only because my mother had said "It's too cold to be wearing THAT!"?

Damn it. The train is late. I hated tardiness. It drove me crazy and went against all of my Type-A instincts. Didn't they know what today was? Didn't they understand that of all the trains in America, only this one would determine the rest of my emotional life? Raf is on that train.

Suddenly it's here - the thundering hoofbeat of a thousand mechanical horses. It hisses and squeals to a stop, passing me with a whoosh of diesel and metal sparks. I have to run to catch up to the last car. There are too many people - I can't see! What if he's not there? What if he decided he didn't want to come? What if.....

He's a hundred feet away. A hundred lousy feet. His eyes meet mine and he gives a half-wave. Suddenly I'm self conscious. How do I look? Should I walk over or stand on the platform waiting? Holy shit - a hundred feet. From an ocean to a hundred feet - is this even real? Seems like I've been waiting so long to see him that it can't be. All those letters he wrote me, and now... a hundred feet.

I start to walk toward him awkwardly. Stay cool. Stay cool. Stay....FUCK THIS! I start running, hair flying in the wind. He's running now, too, his giant backpack almost pulling him off-balance with every stride. We crash into each other, laughing, hug awkwardly, and don't let go. I can't believe he's here. A wave of relief comes over me as I pull away and look into his familiar face. Still the same. Comfortable. Warm. Right.

We pass our first day both like old friends and like new lovers: comfortable but weirdly shy around each other. As the sky goes dark we head to our respective rooms on the second floor of my parents' house. I dawdle around the hall, hoping to find a private moment to say goodnight, but soon I run out of excuses to still be awake (you can only brush your teeth so many times, after all.) I lie in bed, tossing and turning. I can't get my mind off Raf. I want to know what it was like, seeing me again. Is he happy to be here? Is it everything he imagined it would be?

Finally, I hop out of bed and creep into the hall. I have to be near him. When I get to his door, I pause. This is stupid. And childish. He's probably asleep. I sneak back across the hall - each floorboard squeaking too loudly for my self-conscious taste. As I turn the knob to shut my door I hear another squeak. It can't....no.....can it? My heart beating audibly now, I stand breathlessly in the darkness as I hear tentative footsteps draw closer.

The knob turns and it feels like an eternity. Raf hesitates before he pushes open the bedroom door. I'm frozen in the middle of my room. What do I do? He walks toward me, feeling his way in the moonless night. "I...I wanted to talk to you.....I......" I stammer. "I know. I don't know what to say...." he replies. I can hear him breathing now, smell his skin in the inky air. He stands millimeters away without touching me. "I....I've missed.....you...." I manage to say, now almost breathless with anticipation. His breath grazes my face. I shudder. "I...."

My sentence goes unsaid. His mouth touches mine and my thoughts go blank. It is perfect. It is how I imagined it would be. It is.....it just IS.

-------------------------

I'm lucky. When Jake picks me up from San Francisco, his wife is on a client call (she's a psychologist). Don't get me wrong - she's lovely - but it's a lot easier discussing this with him in private seeing as I barely know her. On the car ride to Sacramento I debate holding back parts of the story but eventually decide against it. Full disclosure is the way to go, I figure.

As I'm winding down my epic and Jake starts asking me questions mostly in the vein of "how do you feel about that?", I can't help but feel a bit betrayed. Here I was, baring my soul to someone I hadn't seen in a decade, and yet he was giving me some sort of psychoanalytical bullshit! This sucked. As the weekend wore on, however, Jake started to realize that this was really eating away at me and changed his approach. I felt grateful and nostalgic: these were the kinds of conversations we used to have all the time, and I was glad we had re-discovered them.

We drove out to Lake Tahoe on Saturday to watch the salmon spawning.


After taking in our share of the mating action (very Discovery Channel, by the way) we headed down to the Oktoberfest going on in the town next to the lake. As we watched children hula-hoop and browsed some of the arts and crafts stalls, Jake's wife suddenly said: "ooh, I want to look at the pictures over there!" Landscapes. Dozens upon dozens of them. As I stood looking at one riverbed shot in particular, my memories got the better of me and my eyes welled up. I swallowed hard. Why did Raf's memory have to follow me everywhere? Why did it have to be a part of everything I did? Why is it that to this day, every brilliant blue sky reminds me of him?

"What kind of landscapes does Raf do?" Jake asked, suddenly flanking me. "All kinds", I hoarsely replied, quickly blinking away the evidence of my nostalgic weakness. "Mostly Namibia and South Africa." I added. Jake nodded, clearly regretting the question as he eyed my reaction. "I'm....going to look at something else." I quickly added, then bolted toward the wrought-iron mug display.

Flying home, Lex asked me if I was happy that I had talked to Jake. I nodded, resting my head on his shoulder. In spite of my initial trepidations, I felt relieved to have had someone who knew Raf to talk to. My visit, all in all, had been a success.

After I got Jake's email, I went on Facebook to reply to his message. As I started typing my response, I froze. Raf had left a message on his wall:

Hello hello! Sounds like you are having a fine time! I'd love to live in California... Ingrid and i were there last year for a couple of weeks, she shares the sentiment! Hopefully one day we'll also be able to visit camp. We became parents three weeks ago, so currently future planning doesn't go much further than the next nappy change... Good to hear from you!

Of course.

Adrift at Sea No More!

I have a job in Europe! (This is why I've been slacking so much - been interviewing like crazy)

Details to come.

Also, I went to visit Jake this weekend. Details also to come.

Hooray!!!

October Is The Cruellest Month

When you grieve, you're supposed to go through stages: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance. Theoretically, when you hit Acceptance you're over most of your anguish and have found some sort of closure and inner peace. With Raf I tend to feel like I bounce around those stages like a pinball in a machine.

Denial -Anger - Anger -Anger - Depression - Anger -Angerangerangerangeranger - Denial - Barbarbarbargaining - Depression - AngerDenial - Extra ball! - Anger - Denial - Denial - Ddddenial.....Bonus! Start again!

On the way home from work two months ago I discovered a rusty silo by the side of the highway on which someone had spray-painted the words "4give YoSelf." The first time I saw that graffiti I started crying while driving at 70 miles per hour. I called Lex and tearfully stammered that I couldn't do it, that I couldn't move on, that I couldn't forgive Raf (much less myself) for all the emotional crimes committed over the last 10 years. I remember weaving through traffic, the picture of hysteria but utterly devoid of energy inside, sobbing "I can't.....I can't.....I can't..." until finally Lex calmed me down.

Today I read another blog - Diary of a Dessert Lover - and Des struck me with the following:

I realize, there comes a time when you have to give up the fight. I think that time comes when the other person has already given up – or expects you to want the relationship to work more than them. Both are bad, in my books.

But I can't do it. I can't let go. Does that make me pathetic or just stubborn? Is there another stage of grief where I will finally be released from this pinball hell into a bittersweet "Game Over"?

Even the city moves on. About two weeks ago I drove by the silo, pretending not to see it but peeking at it in my peripheral vision. The owner had painted right over that bright blue mantra. This time, I straightened up in my seat, called Lex and told him what had happened. Then I surprised myself by saying "you know what, maybe it's time to forgive myself." But Lex was busy at work and the conversation had to be aborted (bless his heart). The next day I fought back tears as I passed the silo.

I am an idiot.

Cian, one of my best friends, once said to me in his terse Irish way: "he's an arse, and you'd never let anyone else treat ya this way. What, has he got magical powers or somthin'?" I couldn't help but laugh. Cian is one of those guys who is hopelessly blunt and cynical yet so unexpectedly warm when you need it most. I've really come to value his friendship as well as his ability to tell me to "stop yer whinin'" over the last two years. Cian's long-term girlfriend left him right before he went to get his PhD only to shack up with one of his best friends, so he's got some valuable experience in the grief stages department. More importantly, for all of his cynical blather and "he's an arse" comments, he knows what it feels like to carry the dismal knowledge that you will never stop loving someone no matter how hard you try or how much time passes.

I often ask myself (as I did above) if I can't give up on Raf simply because I'm delusional or because I'm just plain stubborn. Maybe it's because I can't believe that someone who loved me so passionately for almost a decade now no longer wants to speak to me. Maybe it's the fact that he has always told me the woman to whom he is married was not his first choice. Maybe it's the fact that he once told me "you are the light in my photography." I don't know - or maybe I don't want to know. Like I said, I'm a pinball. I just find it so hard to deal with the fact that I may never speak to him again...

When I was on the phone with Jake the other day, I tried explaining this feeling to him in two segments. I'll try the same thing here, and maybe someone will understand me. First, I feel like I ran out of time. Second, I feel like our last memories of each other are unfairly skewed.

What I mean by this is the following. When Raf and I were younger, we never talked about the possibility of having a relationship together but it was always palpable in the tension between us. As he and I met other people, the hope for that relationship gradually waned but never disappeared. We lived more than 4,000 miles away from each other and were both students trying to finish up our education - first high school, then university, then graduate school. There was an understanding between us that even if we were to be together in the future, nothing would be possible until both of us were (semi)adults with degrees and financial independence.

Right before my third year of university I got a call from Raf. He wanted time to think about his relationship with his girlfriend, Ingrid, but this would mean not talking to me for a while so that he could sort out his feelings for her. I swallowed hard, cleared my throat, and with all of the willpower I possessed I told him I would always be his friend and that he should take whatever time he needed. When he figured it out, I said, I would be here to support whatever decision he made.

The months went by and I headed off to Europe for a year and a half abroad. While I was in the UK I got an email: "Ingrid and I are engaged!" I smiled. Then I cried. Then I smiled again. Raf sounded ecstatic, and I had been blissfully happy with Marco for about 5 months in the meantime. I went through all of the possible "don't do it!" letters in my mind and then sat down over three days to compose a reply. It was short but sweet: "I'm very happy for you. If this is what makes your life complete then I feel at peace. Congratulations!"

Over the next few months I tried to put it out of my head and focus on how happy I was with Marco, but my heart felt confused sometimes. It wasn't until I met Cian that I was able to get my head screwed on straight and sorted out again. "If you love him, you have to let him live his life." Cian was right. I took comfort in having chosen the high road. I would finish my degree, get into graduate school, and start my Masters degree.

Raf and I could be friends - we always had been, and we would be able to navigate whatever new complexities his marriage would bring one day at a time. I would do my utmost to respect Ingrid, who seemed like she just absolutely adored Raf and took very good care of him, even if his feelings for her weren't always of equal strength. I would be an adult and take responsibility for my actions. After all, if I had wanted Raf I should have told him so more definitively, right? You couldn't blame the man for trying to find love with Ingrid.

Around September 2007 things started to go downhill. I got an email from Raf that said "Ingrid and I have broken up. I told her the truth for once. I feel dead inside." Turns out boy genius had never told his lovely wife about me and she had discovered that he sends me quite a lot of emails. She's furious, calling for a divorce, he's begging her to stay. Then he emails me.

I tell him to give her some space and explain the situation to her when she's calmed down. "Whatever you do, do NOT make it sound like she was the backup plan. She is your wife, and she is the most important woman in your life now. You do not throw away a marriage over one argument." I cringed as I hit "send" but felt content about how I handled the situation. After all, I had already resigned myself to Planet Platonic and I wasn't about to let all my hard work stuffing away my emotions go to waste. Plus, I now had almost 2 years going with Marco, who was looking more and more like super gorgeous, knee-weakening, emotionally stable, serenely kind, want-to-have-your-children permanent material.

Ingrid returns, they make up, and Raf emails me a happy "all is well." The next day I send him a text message: "Glad all is well. Love, SaN" Another day after that I get an email in my Inbox from Raf's address. It's from Ingrid. This is great! Now she knows that I'm not a threat - maybe I can even go visit them sometime! Boy am I wrong. Ingrid's email alternates between pleading with me to understand her "situation" and spewing bile and venom like a pro. Half threat, half entreaty, she basically tells me to go to hell but to be sure to empathize with her on the way down there. I'm baffled. What has Raf told her???

I will never get the chance to find out. October 2007 holds the last day of our friendship. On that day, I read Raf's last email to me again and again through a blur of angry tears: "That text message was completely inappropriate.....can't you see your role in bringing this about?......This has to end now.........I am not doing this in anger......." Then it hits me. Over and over again, like a shower of bullets. The rat-tat-tat of his last line spitfires at me:

I do not want to be friends with you anymore.

In one year I would have been done with my education. An adult. Independent. Across the ocean. The finish line was in sight - at long last I would finally be at a point where I would be able to make the biggest decisions of my life. I would be able to see him for the first time in 7 years. We would reminisce and laugh, I would meet Ingrid and all would be well. Eventually, when I got married, he would be there to support me, too. Maybe even photograph the wedding like I'd always hoped.

I felt betrayed and furious. I forwarded the email to Cian and started trembling with rage. FUCK HIM. FUCK HIM!

I had done everything right - I had supported him when he got engaged and when he needed time to think, coached him to prevent his divorce, told him I was happy for him and compartmentalized all of my feelings for him so that they wouldn't interfere with his happiness. Doing all this for him had been the ultimate sacrifice - the utmost test of whether or not my love for Raf was selfless enough to support him as we both grew into our lives.

Now he was telling me that I was expendable? That our friendship meant nothing to him? I couldn't believe this was happening. My thoughts spiraled out of control and I bolted from my apartment and started running. When I stopped, I didn't know where I was. I felt overwhelmed with confusion and rage. This wasn't supposed to happen. I felt dizzy and sat down on the sidewalk. I put my head between my legs and tried to slow my breathing. "This too shall pass, this too shall pass, this too shall pass....." I tried to repeat in my head, but to no avail. I retched. Nothing. I yelped in anguish. No tears. Raf had emptied me of all my emotions and salted the earth left behind with just one email.

My biggest regret of the way things ended will forever be that Raf gets to remember me as the woman who adored him, admired him, and always missed him. My last memory of him, however, will be the grenade he launched on the piece of my soul that harbored him. He will always be able to tell himself that this was "what needed to be done", whereas I will live out my days wondering what error I committed to merit such a unilateral and vicious demotion.

I've tried to hate him, but I cannot.
I've tried to forget him, but I cannot.
I've tried to give up the fight, but I cannot.
I've tried to forgive him, but I cannot.
I've tried to forgive myself, but I cannot.

Part of me is thus indefinitely in repair while the rest of me navigates my perfect life with my perfect job, my perfect degrees, my perfect family, and my perfect boyfriend with ease.

I am somehow defective.

I am drowning.

Help...

Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

I dreamt about Raf last night. This is not unusual, as I tend to dream about him quite frequently, but most of the time I don't realize it's a dream until I wake up disappointed. This time I spent most of my REM cycle racing around, telling people I was in a dream until one of them said "Fine - WAKE UP!" and I did.

Maybe the dream was spurred on by the talk I had a few days ago with Jake, another camp figure.

Jake is one of those guys that every girl from age 5 to age 50+ has a secret crush on - and the girls and women at camp were no different. The female directors loved him, counselors were enamored by his flippant trans-Atlantic accent, and little girls went giddy trying to sign up for the activity which he would be leading. I distinctly remember sitting on a bus with other girls heading towards our 2 weeks of summer bliss, gossiping about whether or not he would be there and swapping stories about how cute he was.

Jake has this way of complimenting you that makes you feel like he's been studying you for ages, only to come up with the kind of relevant and generous compliment of which you can only hope to experience a sequel. Many hearts were broken when he got engaged and then married - the only consolation was that his wife was at least as beautiful and as kind as he was. We had emailed back and forth over the years, but as we are both notoriously bad at keeping in touch, it had been at least 7 years since I had had verbal contact with this Thoreau-quoting, French-speaking, motorcycle-riding import. Naturally, I went with impulse (nostalgia) rather than reason and picked the most convenient time I could think of to call him: while I was at the grocery store. (D'oh!)

As I stood balancing my 24 cans of Coke Zero perilously on the Cheese Nips shelf with my knee, cradling my cell phone between my ear and my shoulder, sweating profusely and wondering how stupid I sounded relaying my Raf story to Jake, I realized how I had idolized this conversation in my head. For a long time, I had thought of Jake as the end-all, be-all guru who would understand my history with Raf and comfort me by saying things like "Of course he still loves you" and "There will come a day when he'll regret what he said." But the more I talked to Jake the more I realized that when it comes to this Raf business, I truly am alone. I suppose that's another reason for this blog - communal empathy, right? There's got to be someone out there who has shared a similar experience and knows what I'm talking about.

On a separate note, Sparsely Kate left a really nice comment on my blog, telling me that she liked the flashback portion of it. Thanks for being my first supporter! Please check out her blog if you get the chance - she's lovely.


Ready for another Flashback? I thought so.


It's the Fourth of July. I'm riding a pretty Paint named Lexington through the hillside just beyond camp. Two of the girls with whom I share my cabin are trotting along beside me. I can feel the gelding twitch under the saddle - he knows we're heading for home. It's been a long day, and the merciless sun coupled with little to no shade has made the trail ride almost unbearable for the horses. Lexington is annoyed by the flies that bite his flanks but has been behaving himself so far. (Pretty impressive for an animal that spends his days being kicked and pulled at by inexperienced riders.)

Our riding instructor and trail guide, Seth, is a total hottie. One of my cabin mates and I exchange wry smiles - the other girl we're riding with hooked up with him last week in the outhouse and is gunning for a repeat performance tonight while the fireworks go off and the director's attention is diverted.

I start into a slow canter, hoping to entice someone into a race toward the stables. Seth responds, kicking his large Bay into an instant gallop, catching up to me and passing me. Lexington's competitiveness goes into overdrive, and he juts his head forward begging for the slack to transition to a gallop. I finally let him go and he blasts off after the Bay, thundering along the field and through the trees. I'm still laughing at the little alpha male underneath me as I pass Seth and make the final turn toward the stables.

Later, as I'm washing Lexington and putting him up for the night, the girl of outhouse-romp-fame comes up to me and firmly plants herself in front of the door through which I'm attempting to exit. "You're not planning on hooking up with him, are you?" I chuckle, trying to contain my hilarity, but to no avail. The tickle in my throat turns into giant, snort-filled laughs. Seth is in his 30s, and I couldn't be less interested. The girl storms off. I sigh. Women are so complicated.

My mockery of the May-December romance between my cabin-mate and Seth earns me few brownie points with the rest of our roommates, and I spend the rest of the evening being ignored. That night, I climb onto the hill overlooking the lake to watch the fireworks. As I'm trying to swat away a particularly insistent mosquito, I smell rain. Raf sits down next to me. He's been working out on the lake all day, and I'm glad he can't see me blush in the darkness when I think about how I've been watching him swim in the mornings.

We sit in silence, as usual. The fireworks start and he notices my face. "Are ya worried about somethin'?" I confess that I'm concerned for the horses. The stables are across the lake, and I'm tempted to head out there to calm them down. The loud bangs from the fireworks must be scaring them by now. Raf looks at me and says: "well, it's probably best you're not over with the horses and all that." He puzzles me. Why would it matter to him? " 'Coz I'd rather have ya here with me."

*Gulp*

I carefully lean into him and he takes my hand so that nobody else can see it. As he traces amoebas in my palm with his index finger, I feel at peace.